Grey Matter
by Dr. Skeleton
Summary: An atmospheric account of anomalous events experienced by a low level Black Mesa security guard, charged with watching over one of the disused sectors of the sprawling facility.
1. Initialisation

"James Calhoon, BMID 128776F, inbound for sector 31B."

"Morning Jimmy."

"Morning Stan."

"Stairs again - once you get to your platform. We're still waiting for an engineer on that elevator."

"I'm not holding my breath."

Stan chucked, "You have a good one."

"And you."

'Shit' Jimmy thought to himself. Despite how little movement he was required to do in an average day, the three floors he'd now have to climb every morning were not going to be something he'd look forward to. And every day here *was* an average day, extremely average in fact. So while the exercise would probably do him good, Jimmy's bigger concern was the broken lighting on one of the intermediate floors. While all F level security personnel were issued with a shoulder light that they were required to keep charged, he hated the dark.

With Jimmy's closing words Stan pulled the heavy leaver from his checkpoint booth and the service tram shuddered forwards. Jimmy gripped scratched iron railing to steady himself and felt cool, stale air hit his face as the huge blast door opened in front of him, allowing the car to pass.

The doors appeared reliable, probably one of the few things that were well maintained this far out from the experiment centers, but Jimmy couldn't help wonder what would happen if these things got stuck. He'd been told that each block of 10 sectors should have supplies for 2 weeks when he'd received his training. He'd always wondered what the need for this was. Surely not just a broken door.

The tram was now reaching it's shambling terminal velocity and Jimmy was treated to the full wirr of it's electric motor, accompanied by the ker-clunk of an under-maintained rail connection passing under the tram's checker-plate platform.

The concrete tunnelling opened up into wider areas with maintenance platforms, some with flickering lights above the platform doorway. Some with no lighting. The tram glided past the wide scratched windows of the sector 30 laundry room. Rows of washing machines lay empty, lit with unrelenting halogen strip lamps and the glow of an old vending machine. Waiting on one of the wooden benches sat the room's lone user, Greg from 30F, stripped down to his boxers, vest and socks. Jimmy wolf whistled loud enough to interrupt the rather raggedy looking 40 year old from his sports column. Greg returned two fingers and flashed Jimmy a grin just before the tram passed the end of the window.

Around a few more turns, the tram reached the only reasonably populated platform in the next 5 sectors, 30D. From here Jimmy could see the platform's lower deck and front areas of the upper. Jimmy observed a handful of grey-clothed security personnel and a couple of remaining research associates and admin staff chatting and moving between the coffee makers, notice boards and situational-awareness screens. Seeing the grey-uniformed staff or "CareTakers", as the blues liked to call them, was usually a sign of a department on life support. CTs went through less training, had less responsibility and above all were a lot cheaper than blues. The CT force was largely made up of sidelined blues that had refused to move with the times or were otherwise deemed a problem. They were now relegated to the environment in which many had spent their careers - the legacy sectors. They were dusty old kit stashed away with other dusty old kit, so as not to cause too much headache for anyone with more important things to worry about. Or at least that's how Greg put it.

Jimmy on the other hand had joined a CT at the age of 24. Having no confidence in himself, nor any real interest in anything in particular, he wanted a job with the opportunity to do the thing he loved most - goofing off. After a string of dead end jobs on leaving school Jimmy's brother Barney, a blue-clad level E security officer at the Black Mesa Research Facility, managed to talk the right people into finding him a position. While Barney had some initial concerns that Jimmy would "screw this one up just like the others", Jimmy's role required so little responsibility that it made this almost impossible. Additionally Jimmy didn't ever try to cause trouble. He was never caught skimming the tills or being rude to customers at any of his previous places of employment. He just worked at his own pace - a pace that made the legacy sector service trams look dangerous.

As Jimmy had no business at 30D on this entirely average Monday morning, and wasn't fond of early morning small talk, the tram continued its journey towards Jimmy's platform. Jimmy travelled alone this morning but this wasn't unusual, after entering the legacy sector rail system at 25, the people traffic thins considerably. With the journey through the system being as time consuming as it was, it also wasn't unusual for employees to stay in the sleeping quarters available in almost every sector. The idea that someone would want to stay at work overnight initially struck Jimmy as strange. But as he came to realise, the field of military scientific research attracted many equally strange people - people with minimal ties to the outside world.

As Jimmy's mind began to slowly pick up speed, pondering these people and the bizarre world he found himself in, the tram rounded it's last dark corner and began slowing in front of the platform for sector 31B. The platform stood 8m off the base of the tunnel and about 5m wide, grey matte concrete furnished only with worn iron railings and 4 basic wooden benches. Despite intricate designs painted in shoe rubber on the concrete, and areas where the matte finish had been worn to a fine polish, Jimmy knew he would likely be the only person traversing the platform that day or in fact that month. The thought always gave him a slight thrill and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. As he passed the benches and approached the double glass doors to the sector, seemingly only lit for him, it always felt like the return a celebrated executive on sabbatical, only with an empty welcoming party.


	2. Time Dilation

Jimmy pulled the worn aluminium handle of one of the double doors at the back of the platform, it opened with an unusual squeak. Small details like this were sometimes the only thing that could be used to differentiate one day from the next on 31B. He tested the doors movement a couple more times and made a mental note to return with the can of WD40 he'd found several weeks earlier. While he felt he shouldn't really be offering free maintenance services to the company that paid him such a meager wage,

"who else is going to do it?", he muttered.

Before reaching the stairs, he turned and decided to give the elevator a try. He'd heard CT tales of guys that had accidents on the trams or become trapped in quiet sectors and had received large payouts from the corporation. The thought of such a payout in the event of becoming trapped in the elevator won against his fear and he jabbed several times at the exterior call button. The doors rattled open and he entered. The elevators were one of the precious few places where the facilities managers had indulged in some capet, and they'd really gone wild. The patterned nylon fashioned in a rich burgundy covered not only the floor but the bottom half of the three walls as well. Above this, followed a battered 2 foot pine runner followed by a marked and slightly misted panoramic mirror.

Jimmy stood in the center of the elevator to examine his appearance in the large mirror. Having 3 of the four walls in the little room mirrored afforded an unusual view of the back of one's head. As he looked into his own eyes he reached to the right and hit one of the buttons, not caring which. After waiting a few seconds for any non-existent entering colleagues, the elevator doors shuddered closed. The power draw of the doors cause the yellow light block to flicker and dim very slightly, and as the doors completed their journey, the soft crackle of generic smooth jazz began spilling from a long since blown-out speaker somewhere in the ceiling.

Continuing to stare into his own eyes, the sound of the slamming door registered in Jimmy's mind like the snap of a hypnotists fingers; the subsequent calm and distant-sounding music, like the swinging of a pendant. He felt a warm tranquility wash over his body and pool in his mind. He stood for a minute enjoying the intimacy of the small room.

A second snap. He was back in the room.

He wasn't sure what brought him back. A thought? His mind was empty. A sound? All he could hear was the placid and repetitive music. He was still staring at himself. Jimmy felt a sudden awkwardness at the abnormality of the situation, prompting him into movement. It was evident the lift was still broken he thought to himself, hitting the door's release button. He noticed his watch as he reached for the button. The time was 09:29, a full hour later than his normal arrival.

Jimmy paused, stunned. He quickly ran through the events of the morning trying to determine the gap in which a whole hour could have slipped. There was none. Had he just spent an entire hour in the elevator staring in the mirror? Other than his own wrist watch there was no external stimuli on which he could measure any passing of time. Even the music playing was on a loop of no more than 40 seconds. As he left the elevator puzzled by what had or hadn't happened, one thought made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. With no external influence, there was really nothing to stop him standing for longer.


	3. Recalibration

Jimmy jogged up most of the nine flights of stairs to his floor, hoping the exercise would help shake his uneasiness. He felt an extra burst of adrenaline as he dashed passed the darkened entrance to the second floor. He was now in no mood to spend any time near it.

He pulled open the double doors to the third floor and he strode down the hallway towards the security area. Passing the familiar soft, brown checkered chairs and low coffee tables he could feel his confidence returning. He was home.

Before even removing his company branded bomber jacket he rounded the entrance to his small office and grabbed the large glass coffee jug out of the filter machine. Soon after realising that there wouldn't be any visitors to use the refreshments in the communal area, he'd moved the coffee maker to his booth. There were few things in Jimmy's life he treasured more than the machine. It was a standard issue XL Brewmaster, almost identical to those found in any Black Mesa communal area with more than a dozen seats. The sides were a little dinged, and the jug had gained a brown tinge that no amount of scrubbing seemed to remove. But it made great coffee and was absolutely bullet proof. After retrieving water and filling the machine, Jimmy loaded it up with some grounds from a new supermarket-own-brand 3kg bag he'd brought in his holdall.

Listening to hiss, gurgle and then drip-drip-drip of the machine he hung up his jacket and collapsed in the soft office chair. From here he had a good view of the communal area and floor entrance though the security glass. The layout always struck Jimmy as rather odd. Many floors that shared the same layout had a similar communal seating area, with soft couch-like seats running in lengths along the room, coupled with a small kitchenette for refreshments and a few tables and chairs. However this area was usually backed with a low walled reception desk, not 31B-3's more substantial security area - the room Jimmy now occupied. Why this was, Jimmy was unable to establish, but it suited him fine. The room separated him from his ghostly surroundings and provided a more personal space.

After pouring himself a cup of coffee into his scratched Black Mesa branded mug, he sat with his eyes closed inhaling the steam and listening the distant wir of an air conditioning unit. This wasn't the first time he'd experienced strange goings on in the facility. Centering himself, he was determined to clear his mind and file this incident away under "probably nothing". He was fully aware of what an easy ride he had with this job. But there was no getting around the fact he was very much alone in this very large, very desolate environment. He couldn't afford to become spooked.

Feeling more able to continue with the day after his first coffee, he hit the power button his terminal. As he listened to the sound of the successful POST beep and the disk begin to spin, he pressed the power button on his monitor. The screen popped audibly and as the visuals vibrated and begin to clarify, he was presented with the login prompt. After entering his credentials, he ran the mail application to receive the daily Black Mesa corporate guff.

He was greeted with the usual cheery invites to charity bake sales for the active experiment sectors and congratulatory messages to long-standing academic employees. These were nothing more than slim windows into another, more alive world. He eventually reached a message from Greg.

Subject: Virtual Training Opportunities

for your Usual Training.

Greg

Sector 30F Security Team

The not-so-cleverly coded message was referring to the new address Greg was using for his gaming server. Playing networked video games was one of the ways a small group of CT's had found to stave off boredom. From this message Jimmy knew the game would be Unreal Tournament and the server until advised otherwise. Jimmy exited the mail application.

:~$ ping

^C

\- ping statistics -

3 packets transmitted, 0 received, 100% packet loss, time 1999ms

The server wasn't online yet. "Dumbass", Jimmy chuckled. It was just like Greg to send out the new address and then forget to turn the thing on. Locking his terminal Greg stood up, taking his coffee, and began the morning routine. The highlight of this was a walk of the floor. He unlocked the wall mounted key safe and selected the required keys. Sipping his coffee he exited the security room and set off down the wide hall.

The walk took Jimmy past several computer labs. These large open plan offices housed legacy machines sat on desks partitioned with low dividers. One of the few achievements Jimmy had made while working at Black Mesa was with these computers. Fuelled by boredom, he'd often spend a couple of afternoon hours reading one of the many dusty text books, or attempting to repair a broken machine by swapping out internal parts with others that matched in shape. He now had a basic understanding of a computer's innards and knew his way around the command line.

Jimmy deeply enjoyed walking around the department. The squeak of his boots on the laminate and the movement of the ambient air past his ears was the only reminder that time hadn't actually stopped. He'd toyed several times with the idea of bringing a scooter, but even if he did manage to get one past the facility's security checkpoints, he'd have a rough time explaining any CCTV footage of himself roaring down the halls if it ever got reviewed.

Passing several more offices and small communal spaces, he eventually reached the floor cafeteria. Moving through the swing door he walked down the rows of disused benches to the kitchen area at the back. The hum of the refrigerator he left switched on growing steadily louder with each step. Occasionally Jimmy treated himself to a cooked meal here, but in general he tended to avoid the large ghostly room. The refrigerator had a tendency to pop and rumble which could make for some uncomfortable jumps when he was trying to enjoy his lunch at one of the tables.

Placing his foil wrapped bagel on one of the empty shelves, he closed the heavy door and set off back to his security room. On arriving, he reloaded the coffee machine and settled down in the plump desk chair, unfolding a newspaper he'd packed in his holdall. With the earlier unexplained time loss, this would take him nicely to lunch he thought, trying not to dwell on the bizarre experience. Taking a few seconds to enjoy the quiet, he began the day's crossword.


	4. Abandonware

# wall -n "Are we doing this or what?"

Remote broadcast message (Mon Nov 8 13:49:18 1999):

Ram module is fucked. It's the last server dude.

# wall -n "Damn"

Remote broadcast message (Fri Nov 8 13:49:37 1999):

You'll have to host it.

# wall -n "I told you, I'm not hosting these damn things. I have too much career potential..."

Remote broadcast message (Fri Nov 8 13:49:55 1999):

Hahahaha sure

Remote broadcast message (Fri Nov 8 13:50:05 1999):

If you don't we ain't playing anymore - I don't have any more machines here.

Remote broadcast message (Fri Nov 8 13:50:15 1999):

Files are in /tmp/UT

Jimmy sighed. He knew Greg was right, but he also knew that if he opened his door to this, it'd be his permanent duty to host the networked games. He'd imagined that it was inevitable that they'd get caught at some point. Giving Greg access to machines on his floor also opened the door to other devious activities that he was sure Greg engaged in.

He copied the files to his local terminal and then to a set of high capacity floppy disks. He'd already subconsciously selected a computer to use for the new games server. There was a particularly powerful machine at the back of the lab nearest to his room. He'd never booted it, but he could tell from the case, larger than the others and littered with branded stickers, that this was a high performance system.

He entered the silent computer lab. Striding down the rows of partitioned desks he eyed the various notices and posters still lining the long-since disused work areas. Eventually he reached back of the room and sat down next to the breeze-block wall. This last station was different to all the others. Instead of calendars, tech cheat sheets, family photos and other tat, the partitions stood bare except for a couple of sheets of coded data tables. Jimmy checked the power to the machine. To his surprise the power supply unit was still switched on. He pressed the small monitor's power button. As the hazey display vibrated into view he realised the machine was already powered on.

Jimmy was stunned. How could this machine be still running. He was fairly positive that no-one but him had been in this room in the last five years. The sheer odds of the hardware itself surviving as long as it had were poor. He began typing commands.

~ whoami

Permission denied

~ pwd

Permission denied

~ ls

1 file

~ cat

Permission denied

The logged-in user appeared to have permissions to do almost nothing. The lone script " " seemed to be the only file they had access to. Brief thoughts of the dressing down he'd receive if he got caught running this thing flashed through his mind. But the temptation was too great, it was begging Jimmy to be run.

~ .

== Relativistic Local T Dilation Test Harness v0.127.9 ==

Initialising worker nodes...

*Slam

Jimmy jolted upright. Something extremely heavy had moved somewhere below him. A vibrating hum followed.

****x**x*********xx****x****xxx

Working nodes sufficient

Priming chamber…

*Slam

Retrying (1/3)

*Slam

Retrying (2/3)

*Slam

Retrying (3/3)

Each slam caused Jimmy's heart to jump. He was now fairly convinced he would be in some pretty big trouble for this. He began considering running back to his booth and pretending he'd had nothing to do with this.

Priming failed

Continue with Tests [Y/n]?

Jimmy reached for the keyboard to decline. In his panicked state, his fingers automatically moved to the enter key.

Begining Tests.

"Shit!"

Jimmy was on his feet, moving at a near run down the rows of desks. At the end of the room, a notification light began flashing red.

"Shit shit shit shit shit!"

Then he heard it. The snap of smart shoes on the hard laminate floor. They were moving at a purposeful pace along the corridor outside the lab. Jimmy froze 2 meters from the door. He was in such unusual territory for his day job that his nerves were now in free fall. He quickly decided that he'd wait until they opened the door to the lab. He'd tell them he was just leaving having investigated the strange noises and flashing lights and that he was about to make a report.

Jimmy braced for the opening of the door. The steps moved continued past. He took a stifled sigh of relief which felt like the first breath he'd taken in the last 10 minutes. However, it dawned on him that this posed a new problem. Where was the visitor going?


End file.
